


Herald of a New Beginning

by Tjerra14



Series: Rifts [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chant of Light, Gen, Haven (Dragon Age), POV Cullen Rutherford, Wrath of Heaven/Threat Remains/Champions of the Just stuff, Wrote this instead of studying, might've used some in-game dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 00:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tjerra14/pseuds/Tjerra14
Summary: With the Conclave destroyed and the Breach in the sky, the Commander of the newly-formed Inquisition is fighting a sense of futility, struggling to fulfill the promise he gave when he was recruited in Kirkwall. There seems to be a glint of hope, however - the woman who some say was delivered from the Fade by Andraste herself.





	Herald of a New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't write in English as it's not my first language and I feel like I'm lacking the ability to fully express myself while using it, however, sometimes things happen and so did this one shot. And since I don't know where else to put it, I'll just leave it here. 
> 
> Chant of Light verses taken from the World of Thedas Vol. 2 "New Cumberland Chant of Light" version; various verses/stanzas from the Canticle of Trials.

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I still see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

Trials 1:2

 

* * *

 

Haven, 9:41 Dragon

Wherever he went, death seemed to follow him. First at the Circle in Ferelden, then back in Kirkwall, and now, returning to the country of his birth, the Breach – and death was his old companion, screaming for help, moaning in the distance, laughing at him from the sky, where the eerie green glow of the Fade made it impossible to think straight.

The Chantry taught the Maker had abandoned them, a notion he had never entertained because what was the sense in worshipping a creator who had turned away from his children? – but the tear in the Veil made him believe more than any priestess ever could.

It had stopped growing, at least, thanks to some woman who had miraculously dropped out of the Breach. No one knew who she was, where she came from, what really happened, though Leliana did her best to change that. But to what avail? The healer said it was unlikely she'd survive, and what did a name matter to a corpse, another corpse on top of the pile of the nameless dead the Conclave left?

“Commander,” Josephine interrupted his thoughts, “It seems we've got news regarding the prisoner.”

“She's innocent, so she shouldn't be imprisoned,” Cassandra snorted angrily. She had fought beside that woman, back when the chaos was at its worst and death’s dancing at its merriest and had been quick to defend her after she fell unconscious. Cullen trusted her judgement for the most part, but then again, what did it matter?

“She might be, but that wasn't the question. One of the soldiers taking her captive took a letter off her, addressed to some 'Lady Trevelyan', as you well know, and we followed up on that lead since it was the only one we had -” Leliana rummaged through the maps and notes scattered on the table, lifeless paper mirroring the state of disarray the past days had put them in, until she found the letter she was looking for.

“A Trevelyan, you say?” Josephine paused for a moment, thinking, probably recalling generations of noble lineage, names upon names without real faces but with too much power to hold for his taste. “Again, Cassandra, you said she was a mage?”

“She used magic, commonly that would qualify her as such,” the Seeker sighed, obviously annoyed by being asked the same questions over and over again. Cullen couldn't fault her for that, yet, those were the only questions they had answers for, simple, strangely reassuring answers that left no room for interpretations, worthy of repeating like a frightened child’s prayer.

Josephine frowned.

“The Trevelyans are known for their close ties to the Chantry and especially the Templar Order, so are you sure –?”

“Well, Josie, a Trevelyan mage wouldn't be hard to find, would they now?” Leliana chuckled softly, seemingly pleased with herself. “It just made it easier. Turns out there are two Trevelyan mages that we know of, and one is an elderly man who transferred to Montsimmard in 9:15 Dragon, so he is of no interest to us. The other one, however, is a different matter. Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick's youngest child and only daughter must have been a very lively child as there are quite some records of a devilish red-haired girl causing trouble at the Trevelyan estate. She was taken to the Ostwick Circle in 9:26 Dragon after zapping her older brother Hendrik during swordplay, at age 8.”

Age 8. If Leliana was right – and she used to be right about such things, especially with a smile _like that_ – she would be 23 by now, barely old enough to be considered anything more than an apprentice and maybe she had still been one, back in her Circle. Still so young and already dying – the place inside him that used to feel pity and sadness was just empty now. He had seen too much death during the past few days, hers would just be another one, another burial mound beneath the gates, glaring at the wounded sky. And still – he was supposed to feel something, just as she must have felt something when she willingly risked her life to save the strangers that suddenly depended on her. On the other hand – she might have realized she hadn't much of a choice, with Cassandras sword at her throat, an angry mob at her heels and the Mark on her hand, slowly but surely burning away her life, just as it did now, down there in the healer's hut.

_Draw your last breath, my friends – Maker, how is this just?_

“So what brought her here, then?” The Seeker's question interrupted his thoughts.

“That we don't know. Bann Trevelyan's daughter was, among many others, officially reported dead when the Ostwick Circle burned down about a year and a half ago. No one knows what really happened, but a revolt seems likely as no Templars have escaped -”

“Reported dead? How can you be sure it _is_ her then?” Cullen objected. All those assumptions, all this guessing, all those things they got wrong simply because they didn't know better. _Mistakes made of arrogance._ He had never understood how Leliana could enjoy this.

“I can't,” she admitted, “At least not until she wakes up. But it seems most likely – Varric recognized her accent to be Marcher, and she might as well be nobility, and who knows if there were survivors with so many questions surrounding the fall of Ostwick's Circle? We don't know what made her attend the Conclave, but we know for sure it wasn't her intent to harm Divine Justinia.”

“What is her name, then?” Josephine asked. Leliana smiled and picked up another letter from the table, bearing the yet unfamiliar seal Cassandra had on her that day back in Kirkwall, only a precaution, she had said. _How little did we know back then …_

“Imira. Imira Trevelyan.”

Imira. He knew her name then. Not that it mattered, for the Maker didn't seem to care who He took, and the cold earth she would lie in told no stories.

 

There seemed to be a commotion outside the room. _Another_ commotion, and more bad news for sure. He couldn't help his hands wandering off to find his sword hilt, gripping it tightly. As he looked up he could see the other's faces mirroring his fears and his anxiety. Had something happened to the Breach, was it growing again? Did someone somehow find out about their disorganized state, their crumbling army and decided to take advantage of the chaos? _Did she die,_ leaving them with nothing but the certainty that not only the Conclave and the Chantry, but all of Thedas was lost?

Maybe it was supposed to be this way. Maybe the Maker had reconsidered giving His children a second chance seeing the pain and suffering they inflicted on themselves and the world, and not even their Lady’s voice could move Him anymore. What if Andraste herself had turned her gaze away, and the only song she still sang was the tune death was now dancing to?

The door swung open and a young elven servant stumbled into the room, breathing hard and trying to shape her tongue into words. “Lady Cassandra,” she gasped for air, “The – the Lady Herald, she – she woke up.”

_She woke up._ Cullen didn't even feel much relief, just persisting emptiness, although there was something waking up in him, still dizzy after a long sleep, taking a deep breath, exhaling, releasing his cramped fingers on his sword – was there still hope left? Could it be the Maker did not only take, but also give in these dark times? And could it be – could Cassandra be right when she said that woman – _Lady Trevelyan –_ might have been chosen to deliver them from the Breach?

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me –_

“Did you tell her to come see us as soon as she's able to?”

“As you wished, M'Lady.” The servant ducked, bowed and hurried off, seemingly relieved to be out of reach of Cassandra's stare. He couldn't fault the girl, the Seeker could be irritating, and maybe that was part of her job.

“It seems we will find out if we were right sooner than expected,” Leliana noted with a little smile, again shuffling papers until she found what she was looking for. They had been discussing plans of defending Haven and keeping people save from the Breach for days, even agreeing on evacuating in case the woman wouldn't wake, and with each passing hour their efforts seemed to be more and more in vain. And yet –

_I still see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

The people of Haven – a few pilgrims, soldiers who survived the fighting and the first days of dying that followed the battle and others, whose lives were saved by distance or lateness or unimportance – had, in their despair, begun to project all their hopes onto the woman who’d stopped the Breach's growth, calling her the “Herald of Andraste”, fearfully watching the weary-eyed healer every time he set foot near the hut she was lying in, hoping, praying perhaps, for a sign their ordeal was over.

And maybe it was beginning to be over, maybe the shy smile on her tired face as she stepped into the room, barely concealing her nervousness within her clenched fists and hesitant footsteps that were the first ones on a long path back to normality, the path they all tried to walk.

“Welcome, Lady Imira Trevelyan,” Leliana greeted her, still smiling, now seemingly sure of her findings. And she was right, he could see it in her widening eyes, the sudden stop in her movements, the instant readiness to flee. The people Leliana sent to find out more about her didn't turn up much but here it was clear for all to see – this woman was, or at least had been, on the run.

_From whom?_

“How –?” she gasped, taken aback. Her gaze wandered over the paper-laden table, seemed to rest upon the document in Lelianas hands for a while and then continued throughout the room until it met his. It was surprisingly stern, he thought, considering she didn't seem too sure what to make of the situation. When she continued to speak, she must have mustered her courage again as her voice was firm, low, but with purpose.

“Of course, you wouldn't sit idle while I might be the reason for all that's happened. And since I don't remember –”

“The Divine called out to you for help,” Cassandra pointed out, “We would be fools to believe you had a hand in her death, even though we don't know how you came to be at the Conclave.”

Lady Trevelyan smiled, amused. “It seems you are fools then. To be called out to for help doesn't excuse the killer in the end.”

There was dead silence in the room. It wasn't a confession, _it couldn’t be, not like that_ , and something was telling him she was innocent after all – or was it him wanting to believe it, along with Cassandra and Haven's occupants? If she really was the Divine's murderer, if she remembered now, or if she lied before, it meant they were truly lost, that the Maker had not only lost His patience, but was playing a cruel joke on them. Yet, it didn't seem to fit. Why would she come here, weakened, as she clearly still was, and simply _tell_ them? Why wouldn't she just run, at least try to, especially after they found out who she was? Or continued lying? Of course, they would’ve found out eventually, but if she managed to survive until now, she would be long gone by the time they did.

“So what made you attend the Conclave?” Leliana asked quietly, fingering the document she was still holding.

“It seemed a chance for peace. For normality, and safety. There was way too little of that to be found in Thedas during the last couple of years, especially for a mage. So why wouldn't I want a say in the shaping of a new accord? But it seems it all went a bit … sideways.”

He didn't know what to make of her. As much as he wanted her to be what she seemed as she was standing there in front of them, straightened, unmoving, _honest_ – some part of him couldn't help but to question what he saw and heard. After all, they didn't really know anything about her except her name, but what was a name but replaceable paint on their faces? Josephine said her family had close ties to the Chantry, but mages usually didn't leave their Circles to maintain their family relations. She had betrayed herself in revealing she had been on the run, so what kept them from assuming she was a rebel mage, a Templar killer, a fanatic? The Divine’s murderer?

_Why did they believe her?_

“You still want that, don't you?” Leliana murmured, more to herself than to the others, but she nodded anyway.

Cassandra glanced at Leliana, then back at Lady Trevelyan, seemed to examine her thoroughly and sighed.

“If you're willing, you might be able to be a part of restoring normality.”

Another smile crept on Lady Trevelyan's face, this time equal parts disbelief and amusement. “The world has gone mad, Seeker,” she snorted, “How, in Andraste's name, are you able to undo that?”

“Not me, us,” Cassandra replied. It took her some moments to find it beneath all the papers, letters and documents they had piled up during the past days, but then she grabbed the book she had on her when she recruited him back in Kirkwall, pages upon pages filled with the Divine's words and wishes, words that kept them working, kept them sane. But what were they worth?

“This is the Divine's directive, in case the Conclave failed. Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who are responsible for the chaos and restore order.”

A precaution turned into their only chance of a better future.

“The Inquisition of old,” Lady Trevelyan repeated slowly, as if she didn't catch the meaning the first time, “You mean the Inquisition that preceded the Seekers of Truth. The Inquisition that wasn't exactly known for their peaceful ways – how will that help?”

She had a point, although that point meant all they had been doing up until now, what they've been planning to do, had been futile. They were declaring war on a war to end it, but weren't wars ended by peace?

“Maybe the name wasn't Justinias best decision,” Leliana admitted, “Our goals differ from those of the original Inquisition, though – instead of spreading the Maker's word by force, we want to concentrate on closing the Breach, finding the murderer – or murderers, who can say – of the Divine and end the ongoing war. Restoring normality, as Cassandra put it. For now, you are the only one with any control over the rifts, so your help would be invaluable.”

Her smile faded into something darker and resigned and all of the sudden everything she went through during the past three days – the explosion, her stumbling out of a Fade rift, the incident at the Breach, her _sickness_ – coloured the black circles around her eyes, dug thin lines into the skin around her lids and the corners of her mouth, deepened the scars crossing her forehead and splitting her right eyebrow and left her freckles dark spots on unhealthily pale skin.

_Still so young._

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, barely audible.

They hadn't really discussed this. Cassandra was convinced of her innocence and since she was the first to imprison her in the first place, it didn't make sense to ask her to change her mind, especially not here, in front of _her_. And the young woman seemed honest – but what if, Cullen wondered, doubt gnawing at his thoughts, what if she was guilty after all? What if she was one of _those_ mages, the kind he had seen in Ferelden and Kirkwall, and learned to fear? And especially now that he himself was weakened ...

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me –_

“You are free to go,” Leliana said, “However, not everyone is convinced of your innocence, and even less people will be friendly towards mages now that it was clearly magic that destroyed the Conclave. On the other hand, if you stay, you will not only get the chance to help resolving the chaos, but you would be protected as well.”

“I'm not free to go, then,” Lady Trevelyan noted bitterly, sighing, “But if you're truly going to restore order –”

“Which we are –”

There was a pause, extended hands hovering in the air, waiting to be gripped.

“– then I will help you.”

“I'm pleased to hear it,” Leliana smiled widely, “Welcome to the Inquisition, Lady Imira.”

_She did agree._ Maybe, just maybe –

“You might wonder who all these people are,” Cassandra said, “You know me and you've met Leliana before, but allow me to introduce Lady Josephine Montilyet, who will be managing our diplomatic affairs, as well as Commander Cullen, leader of our forces.”

“Or what's left of it,” he muttered under his breath.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lady Trevelyan said with a polite smile, “I somehow doubt I need to introduce myself, to be honest.”

She wasn't wrong, and yet she was. Despite everything, they didn't know much about her. She had a name, _face paint maybe_ , she was nobility, she was a mage from Ostwick, and she didn't seem to be hostile for now, but other than that they had just allowed a stranger into their organization, solely based on the weird mark on her left palm. Who could be sure if she really was the saviour some of Haven's people saw in her? How could _he_ be sure?

_I shall embrace the Light._

“Excuse me, My lady, but if I may ask – some call you the 'Herald of Andraste'. That's quite the title. How do you feel about that?” he felt the need to inquire, and again she met him with that stern gaze as if she had to prove something to him.

“I – I,” she hesitated, searching for words, “I don't know, honestly. It frightens me to be compared to Her, just because – I have _this thing._ I don't know how it got there, I don't even know what it really is, or how it works. Maybe it's the Maker's work, but maybe it's something else entirely? Does that make me a 'chosen one'?” She paused again, staring at him. “Do you think I'm chosen?”

Cullen didn't know. He had heard the stories of her closing the rifts, seen the impact her Mark had left on the Breach. But he could also see her standing in front of him, staring at him, trying to keep her straight posture, now slightly slouched over, tired, weary, entirely _human_. And yet, there was something inside her, a small flickering light that wasn't the green one the Mark was emitting. At first he hadn't seen it, but now, as she was waiting for his answer, having his undivided attention, he couldn't miss it. After all that had happened she still had hope.

_I shall weather the storm._

“I don't know,” he said, smiling slightly, “But the Maker will, won't He?”

_I shall endure._

What else could he do other than to hope as well?

 

***

 

She had been scaring the recruits again. Not intentionally, of course, she never would do something like that intentionally, at least that's what she said the last time and he believed her. He _wanted_ to believe her, as much as anyone, and somehow she made it easy for him, with all her hope and smiles and brutal honesty, and still – he couldn't help but to wonder if it wasn't too easy? Cullen hadn't trusted anyone in a long time, not like this, practically blindly, like a child trusting its parents to overcome the chaos that found its way in its otherwise safe and sound world.

But there was nothing safe and sound about Thedas at the moment, and neither about her, throwing fireballs at a stone wall right outside the training grounds, sparks splashing everywhere, melting the snow. The way she used magic was archaic, violent even in a way that reminded him of all the mages they kept a close eye on back in the Circle, _rebels and suspected blood mages and future Tranquil_ , but at the same time she appeared to have full control over that raw power, a semblance most of those mages lacked. This time she wasn't even using her staff, instead having a sword strapped to her belt, forming the ball in her bare palms, caressing it with her fingertips as it grew, then tossing it forcefully against the blackened stones.

“You're impressive, Lady Imira,” he said with an admiring smile. Even her leisure time training session proved she was one of the most powerful mages he had ever met and her familiarity with the Fade kept frightening him.

Imira took a step back, chuckling.

“You keep saying that, Commander. It's usually followed with a lecture about the careless use of magic in front of our recruits.”

“There were … complaints,” he had to admit, examining the molten snow slowly soaking his toecaps, “Again. As I've already told you before, most of our recruits aren't used to magic, and seeing someone using it so … freely, especially after the Conclave, scares them.”

“Not only them, it seems,” she said, smiling at him.

Sometimes Cullen wondered if she had read his thoughts, but she had laughed at him saying he simply wore them on his face when he voiced his fears out loud in a sudden moment of candidness, assuring him that mages could mess with one's psyche, but not actually read someone else's mind. Not that it helped much, not after –

_Though all before me is shadow –_

“I've been wanting to ask for your help,” Imira resumed, fumbling with the sword on her hip, prompting him to raise his eyebrows.

“Swordplay? Isn't that a bit unusual for a mage?”

Her smile widened.

“If I remember correctly, mages are supposed to stick to their own, no matter what, and hate your kind –”

“I'm not a Templar any more,” he interrupted her, disgruntled before he could help it. He still wasn’t entirely used to his new position _outside their ranks_ yet, and sometimes he doubted his decision, _himself_ , a doubt living off the memory of the man he used to be, and at times he still caught glimpses of him, with the emptiness of his mind aching for the familiar comfort of the lyrium’s song.

_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

“I know,” Imira sighed, “Look, no one is born a mage, as you undoubtedly very well know. I was pretty young when I came into my magic, but even so, until then, I was presented with two choices for my future – join the Chantry or become a Templar. I'm sure you can guess what 4-year-old me with three brothers being trained as Templars chose.”

There was an answer in those words, an answer he had been looking for unknowingly ever since she stepped into the war room right after waking up. An answer that was the key to her demeanour, her personality, her _thinking_. She had been surprising them perpetually during the last weeks, and each time one of them thought they had figured her out, she proceeded to do something unexpected, all the while smiling and dodging personal conversations that would have helped explaining her actions.

“So that's why you chose to seek out the Templars first instead of your brethren?” he asked, puzzled.

It had been one of her most startling decisions, even Leliana, who was the most careful around Imira, had been sure she would decide in favour of the rebel mages, especially after seeing them indentured by Tevinter, but most likely still willing to form an alliance. _After all, she was still one of them._

Instead she had followed mostly openly hostile, at best passively aggressive Templars up to Therinfal to persuade them of the worthiness and importance of her cause. But maybe her behaviour wasn't as surprising as they made it out to be, maybe they just got her all wrong?

“My brethren,” she snorted, “They're just as much your brethren as mine, Cullen.”

They _had_ been wrong. They had tried to pigeon-hole her and wondered how badly she fit instead of questioning the act of doing so itself. She wasn't a Loyalist, never had been.

“You're Aequitarian,” he realized, causing a faint smile to blossom on her face, “But weren't you with the Loyalists at the Conclave?”

“I was with mages from Ostwick who happened to be Loyalists,” Imira explained, thumbing the grip of her sword, “I'd rather have been with the other Ostwick Aequitarians, but we were only a small faction at the Circle. Beyond that, it wasn't our fight. And those whose hearts aren't in the fight tend to be the first to stop fighting at all.”

It had been one of the questions she parried like some would blows of a sword until they had stopped asking, resigning with the certainty they would probably never find out what had happened at Ostwick's Circle of Magi, or how she survived the fire as well as the following year. Of course, Leliana did her best to cast some light into that darkness, but she had become increasingly frustrated at how little her agents were able to turn up. Not that it mattered to him, Cullen disliked her spying behind Imira's back instead of simply accepting her silence. But still, there was some curiosity left in him, curiosity that made him ask even though he'd better shut up.

“So what turned the fight in your favour?”

Her fingers clenched around the sword hilt and for a moment he thought she wouldn't answer, that he had gone too far. After a while she looked up, and with a sad smile, said, “Their hearts weren't mine.”

He had seen her tired, barely able to keep her eyes open, he had seen her coming back from a mission wounded, in pain, he had seen her _dying_ , back then, after attempting to seal the Breach on her own, yet he had never seen her that vulnerable before. Imira wasn't exactly a tall woman, though she had always seemed taller than life, feeding off her radiance, but now she was shrinking to her normal size in front of his eyes prompting a sudden urge to protect her, comfort her in a sorrow he couldn’t hope to understand.

Then the moment was gone and she was back to her usual demeanour, slightly smiling, with a glint of sadness in her expression. “Besides, have you seen me fight, Cullen?”

There was no doubt she was a capable fighter, though even the most talented and trained could be out-witted or simply outnumbered, and everything they knew of the last days of Ostwick's Circle led them to believe a lone mage would've been killed. He wanted to know more, find out who had been helping her, for someone _must_ have been helping her, did she fight with the mages or Templars, where were they now? But she wouldn't answer, he was sure of that, she already had said too much.

“Um, the sword,” Cullen broke the ensuing silence, not wanting to pressure her any further. She had noticed he didn't want to talk about his time in the Ferelden Circle and respected it, and he wanted to treat her secrets the same – maybe one day his curiosity would be sated, or he would simply stop caring about things that shouldn't even interest him.

_Maker help me._

“Right. I want you to train me.”

“What?” He had expected as much as soon as she asked for his help with a sword at her side but hearing it out loud made the notion all the more absurd. After all, she was still a mage.

“I've already asked some of your soldiers and some of the Templars, but no one agreed. I don't know if they thought it would be a waste of time or if they were afraid of their superiors punishing them –” She paused for a second, eyeing the black smoke stains on the wall she had been training on, then finishing her sentence in a low voice, “Or they might have been afraid of me.”

_We all are._ And yet, somehow he _knew_ she wouldn’t dare to hurt them, not intentionally, or so he liked to believe –

“But do you even know how – I mean, when did you last use a sword?” Maybe he was assuming too much again. Obviously, she _had_ had some sword training, years ago, as a child most likely. Why would her parents not let their daughter train if they wished her to join the Templar Order later?

Grinning, Imira drew her sword, shifting into a basic fighting stance.

“Now, it would seem,” she chuckled, leaving him to shake his head. Cullen didn't know what he had been expecting, of course she wouldn't keep a straight face being asked a potentially rude question, as this was her slightly irritating way of dealing with such things. Still, this whole training business seemed important to her, why would she try to ridicule the situation?

His silence made her sigh and she relaxed again, sheathing the weapon. “Varric had a point in telling you to wipe that serious expression off your face more often, you know? I had regular training with the Templars until the Circle fell, and afterwards – well, let's say I sometimes used a sword because free-roaming mages aren't exactly welcome in most parts of Thedas.”

He frowned. “You had regular training _with the Templars_?”

Cullen had only been to two Circles before, but even during Kinloch Hold's best times it was unimaginable to have a mage train with their Templar protectors. They had been instructed to maintain a certain distance to their charges, and often enough one or both sides didn't keep to that principle, yet organized and approved training sessions? 

“Imagine our joy when Dairsmuid got annulled for being too friendly with the Templars among other things,” she said sarcastically, “Which is not the point. As I said before, I was trained to join the Templar Order before my magic manifested, so when they put me into the Circle all I wanted to do was to join the recruits that were training right in front of my nose. Instead they found out I never had much love for my writing and reading lessons and since they were afraid I would accidentally blow up the tower because I didn't fully understand the books I was supposed to be studying they put me into a classroom with the younger apprentices and some old hag who kept falling asleep. You know, that room had a window out on the courtyard, where the younger Templar recruits were taught what I knew – swordplay. So I decided reading wasn't for me, sneaked out and joined them. Of course they found me out pretty much immediately, but I kept doing it, day to day, until the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander agreed on my mentor's proposal to let me train with them so long as I did well with my studies.”

“I presume you did well afterwards?”

Imira grinned. “I was the first to undertake the Harrowing in my age group.”

He knew, in that moment, exactly why the others had refused her. Who in their right mind wanted to spend time alone with, no, even _fight_ a powerful mage who knew about their potential, no matter how harmless she tried to appear? She had killed dozens of people. She was a _mage_. She was the Herald. And she was waiting for his answer, smiling uneasily, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“So – are you going to train me or not?”

_I cannot see the path._

_Perhaps there is only abyss._

_Trembling, I step forward,_

_In darkness enveloped._

Of course he was. Her smile wasn't exactly something he could say no to.


End file.
